I listen to The Archers not for its plot but the social asides

I’ve listened to The Archers for as long as I can remember. As a child, I was a certifiable Ambridge geek. I had an Archers tea towel. I read Archers books. I kept a diary in which I faithfully recorded all the characters’ birthdays and wedding anniversaries. I once even wrote a script and sent it to the producers, who kindly responded with signed photos of all the cast.

Most of my friends find my addiction absurd. I get asked again and again why I keep tuning in.

“Nothing ever happens,” they say, and I’ve always found it hard to nail down precisely why I love it so much.

But yesterday I read about William Smethurst, who edited the radio drama from 1978 to 1986. Smethurst, who has just died at the age of 71, was credited with transforming the fortunes of Ambridge by injecting social comedy and class nuance.

I realised that this was what lay at the root of my fascination. It wasn’t the dramatic narrative, even though, in the 30-odd years I’ve been listening, Ambridge has dealt with armed robberies, racist attacks and domestic violence. There’s even been a sex scene in a shower.

And of course I’ve been gripped by the latest storyline involving Helen Titchener stabbing her emotionally abusive husband, the nefarious Rob, and ending up in prison (where, just to add another thick layer of icing to the dramatic cake, she gave birth to a son who is now the subject of a custody battle).

Helen and Rob Titchener

But actually, the most fascinating moments are the quieter ones where characters interact and their personalities slowly unfold. Often, as in real life, something that hasn’t been mentioned is just as important as something that has. This is a way of saying that The Archers is very good at that perennial British obsession – class. In prison, Helen has befriended a woman called Carly, who comes from a background far removed from Helen’s comfortable middle-class existence making cheese to sell in her family’s organic farm shop.

Carly is a hairdresser and a single mother who had her children young. Helen’s parents comment on the unlikely nature of the friendship. They are surprised by it but, in the same breath, politely try to mask their surprise. It’s the class system in microcosm: an acutely observed scene of social discomfort.

There are countless other small examples that elucidate something bigger: the village snob Linda Snell opening her garden to the public, complete with a Latin-engraved ceremonial stone, while the Grundy family set up a deeply tacky pseudo-theme park called “ElfWorld”.

It’s riveting. At its best, it’s also wryly amusing. I listen to The Archers in much the same way that I read Jane Austen: for the beady social asides rather than the thrill of the plot. And it’s interesting to note that, despite the media chatter generated by the Helen and Rob storyline, audience numbers actually dropped by three per cent while it was being aired.

For plot comes and goes. Social observation is eternal. It’s why we love the novels of Anthony Trollope or the plays of Alan Ayckbourn. It’s why Mike Leigh’s Abigail’s Party is routinely voted one of the top greatest television programmes of all time and why Billy Elliot has become one of our most successful musical exports. And it’s why I’m still a devoted Archers fan, even if I no longer have the tea towel to prove it.